devour the sun and moon
by fitzefitcher
Summary: Garrosh and Varian as Skoll and Hati, sun-eater and moon-eater.


mutually assured destruction is my kink

contains: fightfucking/hatefucking, frotting, painplay

He's not really sure how they got there, he and Garrosh, but it started somewhere between some barbed words and a promised duel and escalated to them wrestling on the ground. Weapons were lost some point before armor was, and the clothes underneath were frayed and bloodied but relatively untouched, at least until he had Garrosh pinned beneath him, breathless and scowling. Varian held the orc's arms over his head by the wrists, smirking with wolf's teeth and wolf's hunger, and reveled in his victory until Garrosh made the tiniest fucking noise, a whimper muffled behind his lips and tusks. Then, Varian realized the position they were in- he atop the orc, straddled across his hips and what lay between, too warm, too close- and irrationally, unthinkingly ground down on him, both of them hard. He stupidly releases the orc's wrists to grip his shoulders too tight, like they're still fighting, and Garrosh digs his hands into Varian's thighs, rough enough to bruise. He grinds and grinds and grinds Garrosh into the floor beneath them, until the other warrior becomes so impatient that he tears Varian's shirt up the side with large, calloused fingers, growling.

Varian snarls, ripping the remains of the shirt away and tossing them aside carelessly and tearing insistently at Garrosh's when the orc's roving hands become distracted by the scarring all across his body, starts gripping the ones on his ribs like chains. He hisses, shutting his teeth down on a gasp before it leaves his mouth, but Garrosh still sneers gleefully, tracing the scarring down to his hips before grabbing hard again, and this time, Varian cannot hold back the gasp that stutters out of him. He pushes the orc's shirt up, presses his thumbs on his hipbones vindictively, and is rewarded with a choked off moan when he rubs them down Garrosh's stomach, tauntingly close.

Garrosh's hips jerk under Varian's touch, and he snarls with how much he hates this, this lack of control that Varian draws out of him, the restraint that he strips away from Varian. He does not stop, though, want overtaking his better judgement, driven by this strange, antagonistic kinship. He pulls him down forcefully, fingers twisted into his hair, all but smashing their mouths together. There is nothing tender about this, all teeth and tongue and scraping canines over split lips. The coppery tang of blood bursts into his mouth, and Varian bites down harder, Garrosh growling loudly but making no attempt to stop him, stubbornly bucking his hips against him. Garrosh rakes his claw-like nails down Varian's side, hand gripping his waist tight and digging them in until Varian can feel them break skin and blood trickling down his fingers. The pain from it shoots straight through him, cock throbbing while a strangled moan makes it past his bruised lips.

Not to be outdone, he shoves Garrosh away from him, fingers snaking around the orc's thick neck and slamming the back of his head against the ground. Garrosh is dazed, but stubbornly still going, hands clamped around his hips like the jaws of a predator sinking into its prey and breathing heavily while he continues to weakly grind against him. His fingers around his neck does something to him, his pulse throbbing under the human king's palm, and breath stuck in his throat as his skin flushes. Varian fumbles with Garrosh's belt until it comes undone, erection pressing insistently against the tenting cloth until he undoes that, too. Despite himself, heat streaks through him at the sight of the orc's fattened, dripping cock, and he cannot tell if the wetness under his tongue is blood or his own salivating. He barely gets his own cock out of his pants before Garrosh drags him back down again, the inside of his mouth a flash of wet, saturated red before he take's Varian's lips again. Fingers knotted once more in Varian's dark hair and his other hand pressing down on the small of his back, Garrosh crushes them together, as if he cannot bear for them to part for even a second. The heat from their bodies pressed together is sweltering, the smell of their sweat and blood is thick and heady, and Varian cannot see anything past the orc in front of him, cannot hear anything beyond them.

(There's something about this, something about you and him, circling the room, staring each other down, that feels right. This is your right place, this is his, at each other's throats, and you have no idea why, it just is, his golden eyes glaring with all the heat of the sun and snarling something at you, and you snarling right back, glowering at him with your own silvery grey irises. You have met no one like him that raises your hackles like this, that sets your teeth on edge, and you are sure this is the same for him. When faced with him, there is a curl of heat at the base of your spine, lighting up every nerve in your body with awareness, and the breath of something strange and familiar coiling there. This is where you're supposed to be, the two of you, and you know this in your heart of hearts, even in your mutual destruction. Perhaps because of it.)

Both of their cocks out and flushed against the other, Varian writhes in Garrosh's iron grip, rubbing together even as Garrosh insistently keeps his mouth fixed against his own. Unable to stop himself, Garrosh reciprocates, growling angrily as his hips arch to meet Varian's. He keeps trying to continue dragging his teeth over Varian's split lip, but the sensation of this is too much, it seems, constantly interrupting himself with a hiss or groan. Varian cannot even take a moment to gloat over this lack of self-control when he cannot even get himself to stop, either, hips jerking relentlessly against the orc's and furiously trembling from the pressure and friction this creates.

Varian manages to pull away from Garrosh's mouth, lips swollen and bruised, and wraps a hand around both of their dicks, stroking them together in one motion. It's not fluid in any sense, the both of them too wound up and shaking, Varian haphazardly jerking his hand up and down to try and garner some kind of reaction out of Garrosh, to try and make him lose whatever vestiges of control he had left. If Varian couldn't have it, then neither could Garrosh, and he would sooner drag the both of them down together than let him triumph in any sense. Garrosh snarls, hips bucking into Varian's hand once, twice, three times before Garrosh can no longer keep his own hand away, wrapping his fingers around Varian's like a vice.

Garrosh takes no time in stroking the both of them off, driven much too far to stop beyond attempting to crush their bodies even closer together, burrowing his face into the nook of Varian's neck and the both of them inhaling raggedly. Varian feels a familiar spark start to build at the base of his spine, made harsh and searing by Garrosh's roughened touch. It hurts too much, it hurts too _good_ , and it is not enough, digging his nails into Garrosh's back until the orc snarls angrily and sinks his teeth into Varian's shoulder. Varian hisses, the pain shooting through him alongside these flares of barbed pleasure, and it builds and builds and builds until he is blind with it, cum spilling over his and Garrosh's hands.

It's everything he can not to go limp on top on the orc, rolling off of him and landing flat on his back. He and Garrosh lie there for a few minutes, breathless and boneless, and he's relatively certain that whatever soreness that will inevitably occur is being muted until it comes time for him to get up.

"This doesn't count as a victory for you," Garrosh rasps obstinately, somehow managing to find the words.

"Nor does it for you," he manages to wheeze in reply, though he's too out of breath still for there to be any real threat. His eyes flick over to Garrosh, who is already eyeing him with the same look of ravenous hate, of unquenchable fury, that he had through their previous battles, and all throughout this most recent encounter. Fury starts to build in him, though now there's a fire in his belly, a name to this hunger. He sits up, slinks onto Garrosh's lap and legs spread over his thighs. Garrosh's hands fall naturally into place onto the swell of his hips, one of them still sticky with cum and the other slick with blood, Varian notes with an odd sort of satisfaction. They are bruised and bloodied, both, and their destruction is mutually assured; better this than one claim victory over the other.


End file.
